Housekeeping

Made of cherry wood, the dining room table’s accompanying chairs could seat eight with the leaf inserted. They’re the most uncomfortable seats I’ve ever sat in.

But I wouldn’t part with it for all the world.

Closing in on 50 years, that dining room set is nearly as old as I am. It’s like a third sibling—a hard, brittle little baby sis or bro, never at ease, always waiting to be told how to look, or where to go next.

Recently I had to clear junk off it, wipe it down and retouch the wood, marked in places from its travel from the folks’ Florida home.

Now it lives in my condo, catching the south light in Saint Paul, Minnesota, and looking like a strong wind could splinter it to pieces.

Not only am I inheritor of the dining table set, but a matching cupboard, dishes and silverware, and Dad’s office credenza, which at one time was actually a pie safe. They are like human bodies, with the heft and physicality of the body, and a shape that makes them instantly recognizable.

But I recall it never being as cluttered as it just was. Even when it fell into disuse in Florida, it seemed as if it could receive a dinner party at any minute. The folks kept it that way.

That wasn’t the case in other corners of their house: the cluttered bathrooms and den, closets strewn with needlework, boxes of unworn clothes—all Mom’s shoes, Dad’s t-shirts and cargo shorts—and, in the end, boxes and plastic bags full of family photos, with only a few organized loosely in photo albums.

Well I know that inattention—with all its attendant anxiety—but I try to call myself on it. It wants to tell me something, like a terrifying ghost that begs to be acknowledged.

The fear is an unpleasant sensation, like a discordant noise or noxious stench—something to avoid. If I stay with it a while longer, it’s tinged with regret. Regret that, in 2007, I failed to throw my heart into my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary. At the time I was afraid of Mom’s illness and worried about Dad.

In truth, I can’t recall what I did that December. That Thanksgiving was my last with Mom, and in December I learned that an old girlfriend’s husband had died at the age of 55. It was a heavy time.

When I recounted the Florida trip in the journal on Dec. 23, I wrote: “I helped Dad with the dishes and nearly lost my composure.”

Growing up, I never recall Dad being much of a hugger, but toward the end he held on to me as if his life depended upon it.

I can still feel his embrace: strong and solid.

I felt so small and frail and wished for some of his strength, as I still do.